


Sect of Squiddl'yiglith, A Woegoth's Lament

by MorbidOptimist



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cults, Dubious Consent, F/F, Fictional Religion & Theology, Human Sacrifice, Parent/Child Incest, Ritual Public Sex, Ritual Sex, Virgin Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 11:39:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14831588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorbidOptimist/pseuds/MorbidOptimist
Summary: Rose Lalonde, a college student with an indolent attitude, joins a cult for no reason other then to have some way of passing her time. The cult isn't much on the surface, but Rose harbors a sneaking suspicion that there's more to be known than what has been revealed to her, dispite her oddly high standing in her group's social echeladder.





	Sect of Squiddl'yiglith, A Woegoth's Lament

**Author's Note:**

> a fill for an anonomus prompt.

 

They say anyone can fall victim to a cult, regardless of health, class, intellect, or faith. As a Psychology and English double major, Rose Lalonde was well aware that if asked, she would’ve had the perfect out for explaining away her ill-advised choice of leisurely self-destruction:  _‘I wanted to study them up close,’ she might have said; ‘I was using them for my thesis papers.”_

Alas, Rose Lalonde was well aware that when she had nilisticly agreed to habitually return to the ongoings of estranged enlightenment perusal, that she’d had no such ulterior motives in mind. 

She thought perhaps, that was ultimately, how they had ensnared her. 

Feeling no which way about anything in particular, it was all too easy to allow the group to dictate what her feelings should be, what courses of actions to take.

There were no rituals per say; no candles, no strange chants in archaic latin-infused dialects. There had been of course, understood sentiments and key phrases religiously adhered to, but nothing had ever been remotely eccentric, dangerous, or perverse. 

It’d been just a bunch of overly ordinary people who for the most part made an effort to dress nice for the meetups and handed out lists for who whose turn it was to do the catering. 

They never handed  _her_ , any list.

In fact, it had seemed almost belittling, the way the had refused to delegate any task to her newly initiated hands; always citing quick placations of why she shouldn’t bother herself with such menial tasks whenever Rose felt brash enough to inquire for explanation. Explanations, for the most part, that always seemed to hinge on how efficient  _they_ were, and how incredibly enthused to do the tasks  _they_ were, and how  _devout_ to the ideals, that they were; as if they were doing their utmost best to either infuriate or impress her.

That should have been her first clue, Rose thinks. 

She should have suspected something, when watching the newest recruit emerge from their initiation, at least; looking back, in her ambivalent state, she hadn’t put any thought, into why the next recruit was tasked with proving themselves in front of the congregation, while she herself, had been accepted almost the moment she had stepped foot through the door. For Rose, they had simply sidestepped her up to the rungs of the nearly elite, and rarely questioned or reproved. 

Not once, in her explorations of the manor spiraling quietly to the deep sprawling underground, had the congregation ever snapped at her to mind her hubris, or hold her questioning discourse. Thusly, she had wandered many of the halls, rifled through many of the rooms; anything that hadn’t been locked or sealed over, she had seen. 

Occasionally, when she had stumbled across a place that was barred from entry, an associate of staff would apologize to her profusely, and claim that the orders came from one higher even than they. 

The ‘ _Madame_ ’, they called her; never seen, but often heard by seemingly any member of the congregation that wasn’t herself, she was an elusive and revered figure looming in the shadows and underlying whispers of the congregation’s doubts. 

Rose was not particularly impressed, by this phantom of a matriarch.

Perhaps, that was why the congregation assumed her to be in approximate league with their consecrated lady. 

Perhaps that was what had put her at ease, Rose wondered now; the idea that the odd circumnavigation of information around her, had been her own rake through the mire to bear. An unspoken task to gain the congregation master’s approval, to earn the free commodity of socializing with the rest of the herd; for the congregation, largely had not liked to hang around with her, and had only politely made their hurried replies before scurrying away again. 

Of course, Rose amended quickly, every rule had it’s equal and opposite reactions, and one outlier had existed in the form of a young woman not quite as high on the ladder as to be free of menial chores, but well respected enough, that no one dared chide her for her fretting inquiries and scolding postures; a girl who threaded fabric with the poignancy a mastered conductor wove the temperaments of their crowd.  

She liked to tend the gardens, mend the gowns, and mediate broiling conversations.  

She was beautiful, Rose had supposed. 

In the days the young lady had taken a shine to needling her for company whenever their paths crossed, Rose had admittedly been more than a little awestruck of the girl. 

At the thought of their first encounter, Rose smiled; she’d been more than content, that the girl had made sure their paths converged a lot. She’d grown steadily enamored of the girl, over the slow crawling months of Winter.  

“So why are you here,” Rose had asked her once, “What pulls you in?  _Really._ ” 

Kanaya had looked at her for a moment, her short hair ruffled, her eyes endearingly bright; “Family, I suppose,” she had answered, surprising her; “I want to follow in Porrim’s footsteps, and in the footsteps of the Dolorosas before her.”

Rose had realized only too late, that the girl had meant she’d wanted to suffer, and to be happy about it, instead of simply having been raised in the cult, and having not known any other way to live as she’d taken the statement for. 

Rose realized even later, that it was by her own affections, that she had sealed her sweet Kanaya’s fate. 

The congregation had noticed them from the beginning, hyper-aware of all the interpersonal and outwardly pursuits of their flock. They’d seemed happy enough, or else fearful enough, not to intervene in any of their many prolonged, hushed conversations or lengthy, meandering strolls. 

She had fallen most, for Kanaya’s beauty of spirit; an inner glow of character that far outshined Rose’s own in every way. 

Their idle conversations had quickly filled with longing glances and excuses to brushes their fingers about each other’s persons. Rose had noticed, the way the congregation made note of their racing pulses and flushed faces, and had taken them for signs of escort; figuring one of the many sins a follower could achieve, would be rushing through a romance with promiscuous carnal intent. 

Rose had of course, somewhat taken the notion as a challenge. 

Rose also, of course, had to then compose her courage enough, to make good on her idle, silent, self-imposed issue of decree. 

It had been nervewracking for her, to issue her intended any signal of intent. Her palms would sweat, her speech would wander into tangents that she couldn’t reverse navigate; every kiss or loving soliloquy would be interrupted and put on hold has Kanaya would be called about and summoned away agian…

It was Kanaya who, eventually taking pity on her battered nerves, made the first move. 

Kisses, Rose had learned, had never tasted so sickeningly sweet, so serendipitously secretive.  

Whispers of their sweetheart status no doubt circled through the group, though still, there were no signs of reproach. No actions against them, taken. 

The stolen kisses became more frequent; the eloquent prose from Kanaya’s tender lips, more abundant. To hear the girl speak of it, they were destined soulmates; a bond chosen out of the infinite many. 

It shouldn’t have flattered her, the way the girl had so eagerly regarded herself as her future bride; a willing tribute of devotion. Having never dated among the congregation before, or anywhere else, Rose had simply believed all relationships within the organization’s hall, to be considered such of the same.

 _‘I am truly flattered Rose Dear, that above all, you have chosen me…’_   

Kanaya, ever the darling with the weaver’s tongue, stitched together a night of passion on the night the planets and meteors and constellations had all tumbled into poetic positions in the dark heavens above. 

She had led her, hand in hand, to a room that Rose had never been in illuminated by dim torchlight, to a bed raised above the floorboards in a fashioned alter. 

When Kanaya offered herself, gentle and soft against the charmeuse sheet, Rose had humbly rushed to return and any and all affection bestowed in her triplicate, so hungry for love and human connection she’d been. 

She’d not gotten far, when all at once, lights had flickered on; surprising and startling her, which she was very willing to admit. She didn’t know if the elite had lain in wait for her, or if they had crept in while Rose’s attention had been inside Kanaya’s kiss, but their presence in the room was upsetting either way. 

Kanaya however, hadn’t seemed bothered. She had in fact, seemed overly pleased, a great smile and warmth along her face, as she held her. Around them, a great uproar of delighted laughter and proclamation surged, which Rose hadn’t quite made sense of until one of the elders leaned over to pull Kanaya from her, murmuring praising phrases such as ‘ _contractualy binding_ ’ and ‘ _chosen sacrifice’._

It was only when Kanaya was led halfway out another door, pulled away from her by the crowd, that Rose pulled herself together enough to make such a clamor that she was finally granted answers. 

Kanaya was to be the next ritual sacrifice, chosen by her own hand; doomed, by her own sealing pact of desire. 

It was the first time Rose had heard mention of any ritual of sacrifice; she had supposed then, that it explained the congregation’s overall want to interact with her, aside from placating any uppity whimsies she might succumb to. 

It was thankfully, not an instantaneous affair. 

No, they’d have weeks before them, according to everyone willing to speak with her about it.

Chosen by her hand, the chosen one was to be laid before the Madame, sacrificed, for… something. No one, not even Kanaya, was willing to tell her for what purpose exactly, or to what gain. 

She had of course, tried to talk sense into her beloved; begged Kanaya to run away with her, to escape, before her constellation reached its zenith. 

Kanaya, would not hear of it. She seemed slightly offended by the idea of leaving her chosen life path; and worse, she’d been intimately hurt, at the misguided notion that Rose wanted to rescind her martially-weightedlike offer, and that she was no longer, if ever, her true companion. 

Rose was able to remedy Kanaya’s fears, at least. She was forgiving, thankfully; though infuriatingly vague as to why she continued to cherrypick what she would, and would not say. 

It was a final act of desperation, that forced Rose’s hand. 

Unwilling to give Kanaya to an early grave, Rose put her sidestepping abilities to use, and turned her own serpentine tongue to the ears of the congregation, weaving tapestries of reasons why they should switch their places.  

It was a gamble, that had ultimately placed her within her present predicament. 

That is it say, her current state of laying tethered to the altar slab, bored in wait, as the ‘Madame’ took her sweet time in coming to claim her mortal soul. 

The slab was cold, where her flesh wasn’t resting; and the scratchy, starched cotton of her ‘offering gown’ wasn’t particularly comfortable by any stretch of words she could muster. 

She kept running Dave’s frantic rumination’s in her head over and over;  _‘How could you let this happen Rose? How could you fall so deep?’_

She thought of her darling Kanaya, confused, but oddly willingly accepting, of her chosen fate. 

 _‘I… don’t see why that’s_ necessary _Rose Dear, but, if that’s truly what you wish… I don’t see any reason against it.’_

What burned the most, Rose thought, gazing up at the cracking and plastered-over ceiling and the bots of rock showing through, was the knowledge that even now, there was knowledge being withheld from her. 

_If she was the chooser of the chosen ones, if she had sway enough to deny people’s fate and forge her own, why hadn’t anyone filled her in on the things she’d desperately wanted to know?_

A sound snapped her attention into a hyperawareness of her surroundings.

Though it was dim, she could sense a shape shifting about in the vicinity, on the edges of her peripherals; strapped to the slab as she was, she couldn’t move her head. she refrained from struggling against her binds; choosing instead, to measure her breath. 

The sound happened again. 

And once more. 

It was a sound, that Rose could not deny. 

Every fiber of her being, her body, her soul, reacted to those click-clacking snap of stiletto heels hitting the slicked over floor with the combined force of an unlawfully modified cattle prod skyrocketing her across the room at full force to crumple in a heap at the nearest wall in her line of fire. 

Rose closed her eyes, and forced herself to concentrate on her breathing; to ignore the fact, that those heel clicks had haunted her childhood with booze-soaked apathy.  

Inwardly, her mind raced. 

_Why was she here? Was she following her? Did she forge a cult, knowing she’d stumble upon it in some twisted form of parental supervision and passive aggressive admonishment for her life choices?_

Rose grit her teeth, steeling herself up as the older woman walked towards her. 

“Rose;” she stated, her tone cloyingly sweet; nauseating. 

“Is this really what we’ve come to Mom?” Rose grimaced, “I thought you said our game of passive aggression was constructed figment of my childhood notions of self-admonishment and structure seeking complex.” 

The older woman yipped a sound that resembled something of surprise, before she leaned over on the altar, resting her weight on one arm, to look at her face on.

“Rose Darling, I inherited this position from my mother, years ago. I had no idea you joined the ranks on your ownsome, until a few weeks ago.”    

Rose hated that her mother was looking at her; hated, that she could see the sincerity and mirth in her eyes. it was easier to picture the woman as she had in her youth; faceless, voiceless; a looming presence in the darkness poised with a novelty glass and cleaning implement. 

“So you know about Kanaya,” Rose pressed, fighting the urge to pull against her restraints. 

“Of course sweetie,” her mother replied, her face saddening slightly; “I don’t know why you pulled her out of the deal at the last minute, she’s have made a  _lovely_ bride.” 

“You were going to kill her,” Rose seethed, surprising herself at the way her body heaved against her straps in defense of her would-be lover. 

“Well, yes,” her mother admittedly, taken a little aback; her expression confused, “Did they not tell you anything? What was going to happen after?” 

“After?” Rose huffed, “Generally speaking, Mother Dearest, the only thing that happens after death is decomposition in a period of days and weeks.” 

Her mother looked at her a moment, and then started to snicker under her breath in the same manner she had when she’d said something unwittingly foolish as a child, burning her blood.

“Babygirl, you do know that your Mommy is one of your grimterrors, right?” she cooed, a glint in her cold, cold eyes. 

Her initial reaction was to dismiss the comment, snarkily cast it aside and dig into her for the real answers after chastising her for neglecting her interest’s proper terminology. 

A tickle, in her mind however, stopped her. 

Tiny, bubbles of memory floated up behind her eyelids, casting old events in new illuminations. 

Seeing the dawning realizations overcome her, her mother smiled. 

“You see, my Momma, Rose Abagail Lalonde, made some deals with some things out in vast darkness past the edges space. I spent most of life studying them; she died when I was a baby, so I pretty much inherited everything right away.” 

Her mother leaned closer and rested her chin on both of her crossed arms, glancing at her with mild fondness. 

“All your night time terrors? Those voices in the river? The things in the dark? All real, Rose-y poo.” 

Rose’s mind journeyed back, to the long stretches of undefinable time she’d watched her body heave up black fluid, and the static behind her eyes would burn so hot, that all she could do was scream. For hours.

“You take on after her, I think,” her mother mused, “She’d be proud, probably.” 

Her mother glided her fingers across her cheek; Rose was ashamed of deeply soothing the gesture was.  

“…What happens then, when you…” she trailed, her thoughts circling back to her almost-lover’s almost-fate. 

“Oh, I just pull out their inner faculties, is all,” her mom dismissed goodnaturedly, her and waving vaguely; “Kanaya’s family trends to the bloodsucking habit, and take up a really keen radiance. Other people turn out differently; it’s really rather fun, seeing all the diverse sorts of ways bodies can transpose,” she chattered happily. 

Rose swallowed, her thoughts turning to her own self. 

“So… what are you going to do to me?” she murmured, far quieter than she’d intended; a lingering instinctual fear reaction to seek consolation and comfort from her maternal caregiver no doubt.  

“Oh Rose,” her mother sighed gayly; “When you were little, you weren’t strong enough for any of this; there was so much I had to shield you from… But now,” she lilted, cupping her face in her hands, casting her a heart-wrenchingly tender smile, “There’s so  _much_ I can teach you; so much, that you’re strong enough now to learn.”  

Her mother leaned over, shifting her weight on the altar; she smoothed her hair away from her brow with the pads of her thumbs. Rose’s flesh felt warmer, where her mother’s hands had been. 

The light seemed to catch her mother’s face; obscuring her mother’s eyes, as if she didn’t have any. 

 _Or perhaps, the trick of the light was in making it ever appear as though she’d ever had a proper face,_  Rose thought. 

Her mother grinned. 

Rose’s heart started to race.

“Rose,” her mother directed, her tone an echo of former infrequent dolements of life lesson impartments; “I’m going to awaken you.” 

“I’m going to teach you everything I’d wished my mother taught me. I’m going to turn your pretty sweetheart, so she can join you,” her mother declared; “We’re finally going to be the family we’ve always wanted to be.” 

Rose’s heart fluttered as her senses rushed to sort out the stimuli around her; there was a great passionate weight, abreast her flesh. 

Her mother’s kiss was full; as if she were pressing the whole of her heart against her as the weight of her torso pressed against her own. 

Rose’s thoughts raced as her lungs struggled to breathe; her weight of her mother conjured up the emotional weight of her childhood, always searching for the day her mother might finally consider her an equal, and reclaim her position of jouryning heroine in some displaced trial of altruism. 

Her body pressed into the kiss, hungry for the emotional contact and sincerity she had believed for so long in her youth to be a fabrication of reality; it was with utter relief, that she leaned into the kiss as much as the restraints allowed her, upon her realisation that her mother’s mouth tasted like seasalt instead of gin. 

When her mother drew back, a trail of black fluid trickling down her neck from beneath her teeth-filled smiling grin, Rose wondered how she ever could have mistaken the woman for anything resembling a normal human. 

She wondered then, as her mind’s eye retraced the observations of her childhood, how on Earth she’d ever looked into her own reflection, and denied that she’d always been something not easily defined. 

Her mother’s hands slid down to her throat; pressing slightly, while the other drifted lower and slower along, gliding over the starched fabric to peel it from her chest. The gown parted from her shoulders; the cold state air of the room chilled her skin from her chin to her hips. 

Rose shivered; she felt a familiar sensation thicking inside of her, one that always ended in hours of dissociation broken by fits of coughing and piles of nullifying sand biting into her knees. 

She coughed, and thick bubble of dark fluid popped over her lips, casting her cheeks in the tar-like liquid that then trickled down her chin. 

Her mother rubbed soothing circles, into her lower chest; not to help her breath, but to help her cough the fluid up as once had when Rose was small.

Her mother drug her hand from her ichor coated throat, and drug it down along her chest, leaving trails of the eldergods’ blood.       

Rose exhaled a forlorned moaning sigh; unable to move, she was stuck with feeling the rising grimdark tides settling unnaturally within her insides.  

Her mother’s other hand slid lower still, to waft over her parted thighs.

“Don’t worry sweetie,” her mother murmured, sliding her hands back between her legs and along her throat; “Mommy will make it  _all_ feel better…”   

She pressed delicately, against her juncture, collecting her warmth against herself; her mother encouraged her flesh to slicken, and when the older woman pulled her hand away, Rose watched her preen over the black fluid sticking to those fingers too.

“And remember, darling…”

The image of her mother, ringed inside a throng of flickering, intangibly unfathomable shifting of comparatively miniature impressions of creatures from beyond the furthest ring, burned itself into her brain behind her eyelids. 

“…I’m so  _proud_ of you,” her mother cooed, as Rose’s vision finished swirling to black. 


End file.
